In Beijing’s central districts, trees are everywhere — lining roads, filling parks and growing in residential courtyards. Many were planted only in recent decades, part of the city’s greening drive. Others, with thick, ancient trunks, have stood for centuries. You can link arms around them with a friend, trace the ridges of their bark or press an ear to the trunk and listen. Hugging a tree, devotees say, is not instinctive. It is something to be learned.
“Hugging trees is a way of having touch in one’s life,” said Xiaoyang Wong, the founder of a forest therapy community in Beijing. Wong, 35, once worked as a film editor but retrained as a forest therapist after the Covid pandemic left her feeling isolated and disconnected.
At first, many people feel awkward hugging trees, she said. In her sessions, Wong encourages participants to spend time closely observing a tree before touching it — watching ants move along the bark or studying its shape and texture. Only after developing curiosity and, in her words, “speaking” to the tree does she suggest physical contact.
In Beijing, most ancient trees are protected by the government, fenced off to preserve them. Newer trees, however, remain accessible. On weekends and even late at night, people can be found leaning against trunks or wrapping their arms around them: young couples, mothers and daughters, friends seeking a moment of calm.
The appeal has grown since the pandemic, which intensified feelings of loneliness and uncertainty. As social expectations shift — particularly among young women questioning traditional paths like marriage — many are seeking alternative forms of connection and well-being.
Scholars have noted that trees can make urban residents feel “rooted” and “alive.” In interviews conducted with more than 25 young people for her ongoing research, the author found that women were more likely than men to attend forest therapy sessions, drawn by the chance to form bonds both with nature and with other people.
Wong’s sessions adapt ideas from Japanese forest bathing while adding her own interactive elements. One exercise, called “plant enactment,” invites participants to adopt the name of a favorite tree for the day and share a gesture that reflects how they imagine the plant moves. The aim is to deepen engagement and encourage emotional expression.
Other women often co-lead these sessions, many having left high-pressure careers to take on part-time work caring for people, trees and plants across the city.
During one group session, a participant named Florian Mo, 28, spoke about his frustration with love and relationships after a recent breakup. He argued that Chinese society discourages young people from exploring love early in life, leaving them emotionally unprepared as adults. Trees, he suggested, offered a space to reflect without judgment.
For people like Wong and Mo, trees have become quiet witnesses to self-exploration and shared vulnerability. While China’s rapid urbanization is often framed through pollution and environmental damage, these gatherings suggest another story: a generation trying to heal city life by slowing down, reconnecting with one another and, sometimes, embracing a tree.
Awal is lecturer in Social Anthropology, SOAS, University of London
The Conversation